Archus
by Archus
Summary: From scavenger to Dragonborn, Archus reflects on some of the friends and places he visits during his adventures through Skyrim. Unbeknownst to him, he has a hidden enemy preparing to take his life. May contain minor quest spoilers.
1. Borgakh

Archus didn't think much of himself, but his feats were many and his reputation had spread far and wide. From the halls of the Blue Palace of Solitude, to the East Empire Company of Wyrmstooth. He'd made a name for himself alright... Dragonborn. Boatloads of gold followed. But it wasn't all achieved on his own.

From the humble beginnings of a hunter, hunter being a modest term for scavenger, he was now donned in a new suit of steel plate armour that he had smithed himself, from the iron he mined himself. Despite his relative fame and fortune, he couldn't stop himself from shaking off the necessity to remain hands-on with his work, including mining his own ore, chopping his own wood, and adventuring alone. "Adventuring alone..." he thought to himself, as he placed his left hand on his sword. He never used it often, preferring the art of conjuring bound short swords that he had learned from the court wizard in Whiterun. But there was a reason he kept it with him.

His thoughts returned to Borgakh the Steel Heart, and Orcish warrior he had met during his time in the reach. He thought of the time he met her, he was starved and thirsty. Only through a good deed he had done for another Orcish stronghold, did this one allow him entry. It was raining. His rusty banded iron armour, his first set of armour he wore during the early days of his adventuring life, clanked over his thin body. By then, he still hadn't fully recovered from the bandits who had attacked him and left him for dead just outside of Falkreath.

The Orcs tended to Archus, a nord, an outsider. He thought it was only right he paid for his food and water with the gold he had earned chopping wood in Falkreath. A day had passed and he noticed a large warrior taking swings at a humanoid wooden target. His form was perfect, and Archus wanted to learn more. He needed to learn from this warrior were he to become a more formidable opponent to his enemies.

He mustered up the courage to approach the warrior. "A woman!?" he thought, as she turned to greet the outsider. Pleasantries, if that is the correct description for a typical Orcish greeting, were exchanged, and there it was – the regret in her eyes.

"Soon I am to become of age, and I have never left the stronghold."

"You could come with me... I am headed for Solitude." he was confident, if not hopeful.

"I can't leave the stronghold without marriage, I would be a disgrace to my people. A deserter."

The rest was hazy. He remembered brawling with the Orcish chieftain, traditionally a practice held to determine whether or not an outsider was worthy of the chief's respect. Shortly thereafter, Borgakh the Steel Heart, donned in full Orcish armour, shield, and sword of immaculate craftsmanship, left the stronghold with Archus. Travelling for the sake of travelling.

Their travels took them past Solitude and South to Whiterun, where the Dragon attacked. That's when everything changed.

Borgakh accompanied him wherever he went, she'd sworn fielty to him. She joined him when he was a scrawny adventurer, but he became a warrior. The Dragonborn. Not without her help, he went from being less her match, a means by which she could travel Skyrim... to her inspiration. A powerful warrior with both a sword and a shield, and in magic – though mundane magic at that.

And now she lay dead. A tear streamed down Archus' face. He thought back to a more recent memory.

Vulthurkrah, a powerful dragon they had followed into Wyrmstooth, had lured them into a trap. He had awakened an army of the dead, the bodies of all those adventurers he had coaxed into following him, springing to life. A bloodlust in their eyes, they glared at the Dragonborn and Steel Heart, brandishing their weapons and starting their approach. An intense battle ensued. Twenty to thirty fully armed corpses trying to take the lives of the two warriors to appease their ancient overlord. That was when she fell.

They had tried to make a break for the exit, Borgakh went first. Archus remained behind, dispersing the crowd with his thu'um to buy them time. And then he made a dash for the exit. He summoned another ancient power, the Whirlwind Sprint, and coasted past Borgakh in a flash. That was when he saw it. One of the undead warriors unleashed an arrow that pierced her through the thigh. She winced and collapsed.

Archus turned and made a dash for her, to give her a chance to get up and escape. A Nord stepped out in front of her and bashed him with his iron shield. Archus stumbled, "Shor's bones" he muttered, spitting out blood as he gained his balance and summoned all his strength to swing his conjured bound sword down on the Nord. His target sidestepped and swung his rusty iron war axe, swiftly blocked by Archus' Viking heavy shield. Blow after blow exchanged until the Nord's shield arm gave away and he fell to his knees. Archus bashed him with his shield and the Nord fell face first into the dirt, still. He was too late.

The Dragonborn's eyes looked up in search of Borgakh who had been overrun by the ancient dead. He summoned his thu'um once more to disperse the crowd until his eyes found her. She was standing, but her arms limp, her eyes clear and her jaw dropped down. An ancient Nord short sword glistening red with her blood, impaled from her spine through her stomach.

Archus didn't think much of himself, and he travelled alone for a reason. That reason was he couldn't let harm come to any of those that wanted follow him. Borgakh had been a mentor and a friend, a fierce warrior who pulled him out of countless troubles against man and monster alike. His world had collapsed when he pulled the sword out of her body, the sword he now keeps as a reminder of his failure.

He wiped the tears from his cheeks, looked out to the Horizon and smiled at what he had told the Steel Heart's Chief – that it had taken an army of the undead to still her soul. He knew his bond with the Orcish people ran deep, that they regarded him bloodkin. He hoped that one day the Nords would feel that way about the Elves. He did, after all, owe his own strength to the Orcs. And the survival of Skyrim will one day be owed to the Dragonborn.

Archus had a long way to go before he would reach the Throat of the World once more. But first, the summons from Falk Firebeard regarding the ever pressing concerns of the cult of Potema... Nevertheless, Borgakh the Steel Heart's memory gave him the strength to continue.


	2. Talsgar

The Dragonborn felt unnerved as he emerged from the catacombs of Solitude. He'd fought a path through countless Drougr on his way to Potema's burial chamber, the reawakened ancient Nord dead. These particular Drougr were the servants of the Wolf Queen, buried with their ruler sometime after her death during the third age.

Potema was a direct descendant of the Septim bloodline, daughter of Pelagius Septim II, and eventually became the Queen of Skyrim. While she had always shown promise in her knowledge of the arcane arts, she would eventually succumb to the lust for power. She was perhaps most notably infamous for her practice of Necromancy – the enslavement of souls against their will. Some say that at the height of her madness, her only companions were the undead servants she had amassed over the years.

The grand irony behind her return to the living realm was that the necromancers seeking to revive her, also sought to enslave her. They would have succeeded had Archus not intervened at Wolfskull Cave, and instead, she was only partly revived. Her soul was still bound to her tomb, but she was rapidly regaining the power to break free. Archus had fought hard to thwart her a second time, drawing deeply on every power of his own.

But none of this was what bothered him. He had enountered some rogue vampires beneath Solitude as well, some of which were blatantly working to complete the revival of Potema, but others... they seemed to have simply been in hiding. Shunned and reviled, these vampires could do nothing but lash out at Archus once they had discovered his presence. It was all they knew, all they could do to survive. In retaliation, of course, he had to fight back. None survived.

These vampires had once been the sons and daughters of actual people, they were not born monsters. They were once children who'd had hopes and dreams, aspirations and goals. They once had a choice. Many of them had been forced victims of vampire feeding rituals, and one day, they felt a sickness boiling inside of them. Sanguinare Vampiris coursed through their bodies, infecting their minds with a hunger they could not understand, nor resist. They would have tried to live out their lives despite these otherworldly cravings for human blood until it was too late, and the disease had taken a physical toll on their bodies and minds. Their eyes would eventually glow bright yellow, and their neighbours would drive them out and hunt them down.

Perhaps living underground with easy access to Solitude's Halls of the Dead was their only means of surviving. They had shelter from the sunlight and normal folk, and they also had the freshly dead as a non-lethal food source. Lashing out at Archus was out of desperation. Exile was their only prison. No, it was their freedom.

"Freedom."

The word echoed in Archus' mind after he had collected his reward from Falk Firebeard in the Blue Palace. No one in Skyrim seemed 'free'. The Elves were oppressed by the Nords, who were oppressed by the Empire, who were oppressed by the Thalmor. No one was really free, not even the Dragonborn. His journey was governed by fate.

Once outside the gates of Solitude, Archus made a start for the carriage he would take back to Whiterun. It was about time he returned, he was their Thane after all. As he approached the guard watchtower the carriage was set next to, he saw a man clad in blue and gold common clothing. He had a dwarven short sword strapped to his belt, and was playing the lute to what seemed like an imaginary audience. A bard with a rare and exotic treasure for a weapon. Responding to Archus' approach, the man spoke in a strong Nord accent.

"Hello there, friend. How lucky for you to chance upon a bard on the road."

"You struck me as more the adventuring type."

"Aye, I have been on some travels of my own." the Nord grinned, brushing off what some would interpret as condescension. "The best tales are those of adventure. Who could truly write a tale without first experiencing such?"

Archus lowered his black leather hood and let the sun rest on his face, his age accentuated by the battle scar across his right cheek. "So you're a songwriting adventurer then."

"Aye. Some may find their inspiration tucked away in tomes, or by carousing in the cities. But I find it in the vast expanse of Skyrim."

The Nord let out a hearty laugh to which Archus couldn't help but smile. Perhaps there was freedom in Skyrim after all. He just hadn't been looking at it the right way. They exchanged a nod of mutual respect, and Archus turned to approach the horse drawn carriage. He removed and reached into his brown fur backpack for his gold pouch when the man spoke.

"I can take you to any of the hold capitals." the man clearly meant business, his stern look said as much.

"Whiterun, please." said Archus, brushing past some of the exotic jewels in his backpack to get at the gold pouch that had fallen to the bottom. He'd just reached for it when the bard startled him.

"You don't mind me coming along, do you? I am headed somewhere on the way to Whiterun." the bard seemed to have followed Archus to the carriage.

"Not at all." he responded, removing a pouch of 100 septims for the coachman.

Something about this man interested Archus. He seemed like a seasoned adventurer, yet his means were completely out of the norm. He was not of the Bard College in Solitude, he wasn't in it for the treasure or the glory, nor was he in it for powerful artifacts. Though, there was a possibility he was simply a wanted fugitive, only too proud to join one of the many bandit camps scattered throughout Skyrim. But that just seemed unlikely.

"My name is Talsgar," said the bard, unsheathing his weapon, "And you want to know more about this, don't you?" He has a knowing look in his eye.

"Its craftsmanship is of the late dwemer era, I've seen them before, but never in such good condition. That's not the kind you'd find in an old dwemer ruin."

Talsgar grinned. "Ah, but it is. I found it in Alftand, North past Solitude, through the mountains. It was simply laying there in wait."

"You didn't venture deep into the ruins?"

"Heavens no, wouldn't be much of an adventure if I was dead now, would it?" he sheathed the weapon away at his side. "There was a research camp just outside of Alftand before I left. I have since heard it was destroyed by a group of bandits."

Archus looked down at his steel plate boots, they shone magnificently in the sunlight. The two exchanged short tales of adventure, the bard explained how he had liberated the camp at Alftand in order to honour the dead. Archus briefly touched on his adventure through Wyrmstooth. He hadn't mentioned the dragon, the undead army, or Borgakh, however.

"Nasty bit of business that happened over there, I'd heard all about what happened to the East Empire Company. Had to halt their trade routes due to dragon attacks." Talsgar's Nord accent was strong, Archus remained quiet on the issue.

"I hadn't encountered any problems with dragons while I was there." Sometimes concealing his identity as Dragonborn had been necessary.

"You're probably one of the lucky ones, then!" Talsgar let out another hearty laugh.

Some hours passed by and the climate changed from being uncharacteristically warm for Haafingar, to a chilling dark overcast. They had just passed Dragonsbridge and were shortly crossing the border into Hjalmarch, a place Archus had never explored much of. He thought of Lydia, how good it would feel to be back at Breezehome for the first time in months. The fire, a full pantry, some mead. The warm climate was also a welcome thought. Setting his travel gear down for the first time in a while would surely be strange. He'd almost forgotten the feeling of regular clothes, regular boots, the feeling of his naked hands in the wind. These would likely strike him foreign, it had been a long, long time.

Since the dragon attack in Whiterun and his subsequent rise to Thanehood, he had met the Greybeards, and the last remaining member of the Blades, Delphine. Archus had been deeply honoured to climb the Seven Thousand Steps and learn from the masters of the voice themselves, but he had found their complacency daunting. In Borgakh's own words; "It's as if they'd rather wait for something terrible to happen before they are forced to continue your training. Like all the dragon attacks are not enough."

The Greybeards had simply given him the instruction to strengthen his Thu'um through meditation at the various dragon shrines scattered throughout Skyrim, and told him that they would summon him when the time was right. That was about a year ago now, but more concerning was Delphine's silence. The letters had stopped coming.

"Perhaps I shall pay her a visit in the next few days." he thought, glancing past Talsgar and out towards the spectre of Morthal on the horizon. It looked like the coachman had opted to take the South road instead of the East road, either of them would be fine.

"So, Archus, I wanted to ask you a favour." Talsgar raised a large nord hand to itch his chin. "I am looking for a place called the Bard's Leap."

Archus had heard of it, but had never journeyed there. "What about it?"

"It has been overrun by the Forsworn of the Reach, they have set camp there."

Archus preempted the rest, "Talsgar, I'm not the sellsword you are looking for."

"Oh, but yes you are," that telltale grin once again, "Yes you are, Archus the Dragonborn."


	3. Syrath

"But what of the Dragonborn, Master? _Surely_ you would not be so blind to ignore _his presence_ in Skyrim?"

Syrath shrugged off Vingalmo's outburst with the flick of the wrist, "He has not been a problem before and I do not see him becoming one in the future."

Syrath's voice was a deep hiss that his followers had learned to fear, and rightly so. He sat upon the throne of Volkihar Keep after having destroyed his predecessor, Lord Harkon, in a magnificent battle for power. As if that weren't enough, he wore an intricately designed mask at all times, and few of the vampires had ever seen the man's face. Syrath was the Vampire Lord now, and they didn't even know what he looked like.

To his right sat his mistress, Serana, the daughter of Lord Harkon and Lady Valerica. Syrath had taken her as his bride shortly after her father's death. To Serana's dismay, her mother remained trapped in the Soul Cairn despite her best efforts at convincing Syrath to find a way to free her. It was not that it was not within his power to do so, rather that he felt the task was beneath him.

She leaned over and whispered in Syrath's ear. Vingalmo and the rest of the feeding hall fell silent, save for the groans and sluggish shuffling from the 'cattle'. When she had finished, Syrath stood up from his throne and approached the edge of the balcony to address his cult.

"Do you so fear this _Dragonborn_?" his mask glistened in the golden light of the chandeliers, "Have you forgotten who we are?"

The dining hall remained deathly silent. Syrath, turned to his side and with his right arm outstretched, pointed at Serana.

"_She_ tells me I should _listen _to you, Vingalmo. She _pleads_ that I take your concerns into consideration." His gaze turned back to the vampires below him and his voice grew deeper with rage. "The _daughter_ of the dead man who betrayed you all, is vouching for _you_."

Some muttering could be heard in the halls. While no one doubted Syrath's right to the throne, many still held Harkon in high esteem. Two such people were his former advisors, Vingalmo and Orthjolf. The large nord stood up to interject.

"Master, while it is true that you have brought us _undeniable_ glory over the last few months, it would be _foolish_ to think that we cannot be beaten." He spoke with typical Nord vigor. "We have recently lost touch with our men in the Reach, and many of our spies in Markarth have been _executed_."

Syrath retorted "For every failure we have had a dozen successes."

"My point, Master, is that there _are_ failures. We are _not_ invincible."

"Our _failure_ has been dealt with, has it not?"

Syrath spoke truth. Orthjolf felt a lump in his throat as he thought back to the day Garen Marethi had been executed for his poor decisions regarding the excursion in the Reach. The dunmer's entrails had been strewn from wall to wall in the castle courtyard. Orthjolf could still hear his screams.

Vingalmo took advantage of the nord's hesitation, "Permit me to send a scouting party out to find out what we can about the Dragonborn, master. Then we can have him dealt with before he becomes a problem."

There was no denying that Vingalmo knew how to handle Syrath. But he lacked the same foresight that his Vampire Overlord had in abundance.

"Vingalmo, I already _know_ all that I need to know about him." Beneath his mask lay a telling grin, "_Sybille Stentor_ has informed me that he recently did a job for Jarl Elisif."

The dining halls fell to silence once more. Syrath paused and his followers took in the hesitation, a telltale sign that they had all been curious about the famed Dragonborn.

"I _know_ that he has liberated the East Empire Company from the clutches of a powerful dragon in Wyrmstooth." He started slowly pacing from end to end of his balcony above his peons below. "I _know_ that he has all but eradicated the cult of Potema, and even slain their figurehead _witch_ in the catacombs of Solitude. I know that he is the _Thane_ of Whiterun." His pacing drew to a sudden halt. "He has achieved much."

Orthjolf, dejected, slumped back into his seat and let out a deafening sigh. Vingalmo remained at his feet. Syrath continued.

"But… perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement." He let his arm outstretch towards both Vingalmo and Orthjolf, and all the eyes in the dining hall fell on them. "A little… game, perhaps?"

Vingalmo and Orthjolf exchanged befuddled glances, they could only speculated at what sort of plot their overlord had come up with in the twisting nethers of his mind.

"Each of you can assemble a group of your most _trusted_ servants to bring me the Dragonborn's head." He paused for dramatic effect, as he often did. "He who _succeeds_ shall _live_, he who _fails_ shall end up like our old friend Marethi – a decorative feature in the castle gardens."

The dining halls erupted with chaos. Some of the more jovial vampires cheered and laughed, downing their goblets of human blood, spilling the tainted red upon the floor's decorative tiles. Others argued amongst themselves in clear distaste of Syrath's proposition.

Orthjolf's fist slammed down on the dining table and rose to his feet, knocking his over neighbour's cup of blood in the process. "This is an outrage!"

Unmoved by the outburst, Syrath sat down upon his throne beside Serana and let the large Nord continue.

"We should be pooling our resources! This is _madness_!" the nord's face was red with anger. In stark contrast, Vingalmo seemed more calm and collected. Syrath's glowing red eyes raced between the two of them from behind the visage of his mysteriously decorative mask.

Vingalmo spoke with calm conviction "While it is true that Orthjolf and I have often not seen eye to eye, I have to agree that this is _meaningless_."

Syrath remained silent, observing the two of them as he once observed Harkon.

"By pooling our resources we will guarantee success, we can take our time and strike with precision. Doing it this way will only breathe hasty decision making."

Syrath raised his hand and the hall fell into silence once more. With a quiet hiss, he spoke.

"_Meaningless_? _Madness_? An _outrage_?" his hiss of a voice turned to a violent roar, "You are both remnants of an age long dead! I could kill you both myself before either of you could next blink!"

His voice full of hatred echoed in the dining hall. The faces on both of Harkon's old advisors were the image of pure horror. Both of them knew what their new master was capable of, but neither of them knew the full extent of his power. They had both know that Lord Harkon was an incredibly gifted mage and an equally gifted necromancer, but neither of them had witnessed the fight that took place between he and Syrath.

There had been stories going around that it was a magnificent show of magic. Some had said that Syrath had murdered Harkon with a flurry of blade strikes before he could even react. But those that had seen Syrath return to Castle Volkihar with the legendary weaponry of Auriel had believed the story to be far more grandiose. The truth was that it was only Serana that had witnessed the conflict, and she had never spoken of it. It was that fact that had prevented the other vampires from murdering Syrath in his sleep.

It was common knowledge that both Orthjolf and Vingalmo had voiced their displeasure at serving Syrath. He was deathly ruthless and lacked the civility that Lord Harkon had employed within the castle. Where Harkon had placed importance in respect, Syrath held no such regard for the lives of those around him.

Syrath stood up and folded his arms. He had observed the chaos in the dining halls for some time now. It seemed to be the old guard versus the new. One of the recruits had thrown a flask of blood at Orthjolf and the giant nord had retaliated by holding him down by his neck and blasting his face with a novice-level flame spell.

Syrath turned to address Serana.

"Make your way to my chambers and _remove_ your garbs. I will be there shortly."

She always did as she asked because she loved him. Albeit unrequitedly.


End file.
